


in the bleak midwinter

by peradi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Christmas, Din Djarin's Helmet Stays on During Sex, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Reader is kidnapped, Rough Sex, The Author Regrets Nothing, arent we all, daddy mando hours are twenty four seven, i know some of my irl friends follow this account don't you dare read this, mando is daddy in both ways just saying, mando is pissed, oh god its happened five years in te star wars fandom and im finally writing y/n fic, reader is very thirsty, takes part while mando looks for jedi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28358931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peradi/pseuds/peradi
Summary: “Wait. For o-once in your life, do as I say.”“I always do what you say,” you retort. “ Always .”“Then shut up .”It’s the worst kind of cliche, but you cannot help yourself: you look up at him through your lashes, and smile beatifically, and say, “ Make me .”--You and Mando learn the true meaning of Yuletide.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Original Character(s), Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 19
Kudos: 256





	in the bleak midwinter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [guardianangelcas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianangelcas/gifts).



> gifted to guardianangelcas for being the originator of the thirstiest trend in fanfic ive seen in a while, and convincing me that it is socially acceptable to post this.
> 
> no one @ me, this is exactly what the tags say and i'm not ashamed. maybe a little ashamed.
> 
> if people want to read more let me know, im happy to write it because i mean what else am i going to write in lockdown. fucking tier 4, thanks boris.

“Why,” says Mando, in tones of utter bafflement, “is the child dressed as -- as -- a blob?”

“It’s a  _ star _ ,” you say, grumpily: your sewing skills will never equal your grandmother’s, but you don’t think that the outfit you have made the baby is completely unidentifiable. “Look. It’s got points.”

You gesture to one of the child’s arms, which is encased in a silver sleeve that batwings down in a triangle before tapering to an elasticated cuff. Obliging as ever, the baby sticks out his arms, displaying that he is -- in fact -- a gorgeous little star, the best apex predator that ever did live. His little feet are similarly attired, and you play with his toes in an attempt to hide the red flare on your cheeks. 

You did not think that Mando would be back to the ship  _ early _ . Normally when he heads off on a mission, leaving you with the child, he takes  _ longer _ than expected; he’s liable to get entangled in one problem or another, and what was meant to be a trip to fix up the ship becomes a week-long venture in which he makes a whole series of new friends, and scuffs up his armour, and  _ ruins _ his clothes. 

And who has to mend them? And who gets  _ thanked _ for it?

“Why is he dressed as a star?” Mando says, not to be dissuaded from his question. You stare up into the T of his helmet, and -- not for the first time -- wonder what sort of creature lurks there. His voice is human enough, but that doesn’t mean anything: you’ve met all sorts of creatures who sound human. Your working theory is that he is a larger version of the tiny one; he must wear his huge ears cramped inside his helm, folded down on themselves.

“Because,” you say. Then you bite at your lower lip, worrying at a spare scrag of skin there, trying to work out a way to explain yourself without sounding  _ completely _ insane. “Because it’s snowing outside.”

“The planet is called Everwinter,” he says. 

“Well -- yes. That’s why it’s snowing. But --” 

You hands twitch. When you are anxious you need something to  _ do _ , channelling your frenetic energy into motion. Your normal outlet is the baby, but he is content in his father’s arms; so instead you all but throw yourself onto the ground, and pick up a sock. You’ve already darned it, but you pick a spot at random and begin darning again in quick, vicious stitches. You press your shoulders up against the Crest’s wall, feeling the engine purr all the way down your spine. 

“I’ve been here for two months,” you say. “By my count, at least. I left in autumn. It’s winter now. It’ll be Yule back home.”

Mando stares down at you; a tall, broad hulk of lightning-bright beskar, so profoundly alien that a deep, ancestral part of you quails; that lizard-brain whisper that says  _ predator, run _ . It’s an electric feeling that starts in the soles of your feet and bolts to your hips. 

You’re  _ not _ a lizard, however. You meet his faceless observation with an exasperated grimace -- exasperated at yourself, at the baby, at him, at the snow. At  _ everything _ . Your grandmother -- Force rest her mad old soul -- always used to say  _ you don’t know home until you leave it behind _ , and you never really listened to her words of wisdom (considering that other stalwart favourites included  _ a fool and his teeth are often parted _ and  _ if you’re going to murder your husband make sure that his mistress is on your side). _

You are beginning to think that she had a point. You did not realise what parts of home you valued until you left them behind. And here you are.

“What’s Yule?” he says. 

“A festival,” you say. “It’s meant to mark the time when the days are at their shortest. It’s a celebration of the sun. You dress up in your best, put up decorations --”

“Dress children up as blobs?”

“--stars,” you correct. And then, “A joke? Was that a  _ joke? _ ”

“Perhaps. What did you use to make this?”

“An old insulation blanket. Lined it with one of your shirts -- oh, don’t look at me like that, it was one of the old, gross ones. You need more clothes.”

“What have I told you about  _ stealing my things _ ?”

“It was not  _ stealing _ ,” you retort. Sitting on the ground makes you feel like a petulant child being rebuked, so you stand up once more, and brandish your over-darned sock at him. “I do not steal. It was in the laundry.”

“ _ My _ laundry,” he says.

“Which  _ I  _ do.”

“I do not  _ ask you to _ ,” he says, flatly, and the electric feeling returns, stark up your legs, a little voice saying  _ run _ . You swallow it down. It does not matter what daft, awkward spasms that your animal brain spits up when he takes that tone with you: you are only a few years short of thirty, and you will  _ not _ be frightened by him. 

“You pay me to watch your child, and keep this place in working order. And part of that is making your child clothes that aren’t brown robes --”

“-- _ I made those -- _ ”

“And they are  _ lovely,”  _ you say, ever the diplomat, “but he needs other clothes as well.”

“Blob clothes.”

(Is that the hint of a smile in his voice? Maybe?)

“Blob clothes,” you concede. “I’m sorry. I thought you would be longer.”

“Dead end,” he says. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, again. A cold draught sweeps through you, and you swallow thickly: Mando is not the most forthcoming with details, but you know how draining this quest has been -- how lonely, and tiring, hunting across the galaxy for a whisper of the Jedi, a murmuration. Chasing rumours. Riding after shadows. “We’ll leave then?”

“Yes,” he says. “There are some people I need to talk to.”

“Absolutely,” you say, tucking the darned sock into your mending. “I’ll pop the little one off to bed, if you’re setting the coordinates.”

You hold out your arms for the child. Mando does not move to hand him over. He just stands there, looming, a faceless sentinel. He’s more comfortable with silence than you are, and will never speak unless he needs to; he’ll let silence stretch and echo, while you flounder in it. 

Your voice lilts into a question: “Do you need me to do anything else?”

“We’ll stay here tonight,” he says. “And leave in the morning.”

“Of course,” you say. It’s not the first time that Mando has announced plan changes that make little sense to you; but you don’t ask questions, as long as his plans do not directly interfere with your ability to care for the child. 

(The first time you told him to his face -- or lack thereof -- that he had to postpone a hunt because his child was snotty and ill and needed his father he had offered no resistance whatsoever: just tilted his silver helm down to the crib.  _ You’re right, _ he said.)

(And oh what a rush of power that had been -- but you had pushed away the giddy, guilty pleasure at having a warrior, who could very easily snap you in half, concede to you so swiftly. You are a  _ professional _ , and you are an  _ adult _ , and you refuse to get a girlish crush on a suit of armour. You will  _ not _ .)

\--

You settle the child down to bed, giving him his evening meal of frog -- you have to bulk catch them, freeze them; it’s your least favouri te part of the job; you  _ like  _ frogs -- and hop into the refresher. You still can’t get used to the smell of recycled water: a little like bleach, a little like metal. 

(That’s another thing to add to the list: things you miss about home. Things you didn’t value until you lost them. Water that smells like  _ water. _ )

Mando isn’t one for home comforts, and you two have been chasing Jedi rumours too much to make any shopping trips, so you share the same yellow bar of soap: it smells like artificial citrus, and is absolutely  _ terrible _ for your hair. You work up a lather between your hands, and inhale. This is what Mando smells like, under his armour. His hair probably smells of it to, and --

“No,” you snap, flinging the handful of suds at the fresher wall. “Absolutely not.”

He’s not human.  _ Obviously _ he is not human. His son is a small green frogmunching monster; thus it stands to reason that he is a  _ big _ frogmunching monster --

With a  _ sexy _ voice. 

No. Nope.  _ Absolutely  _ not. It may have been a little while -- alright, a  _ very _ long while -- since you’ve had a man anywhere near you, but you are  _ not  _ enough of a degenerate to start thirsting over Frogmuncher Senior. You have standards. Dignity. 

A minute later, you’re biting into the back of your hand to stifle the mewling, incoherent sound you make as you cum; your fingers curling between your thighs as you think of --

( _ Mand --) _

_ (No -- man -- a man, called man --?) _

A rap on the door; a modulated voice calling your name. You snap back to reality, and all but fall out of the fresher; wrapping a towel around yourself, slamming the door release, all in one stumbling spill of movement. Mando never,  _ ever  _ requests your presence when the child is asleep, so something most be terribly wrong. Black wings of panic beat in your skull: is the child choking? No, he could deal with that himself. Is there something approaching the ship? Is --

The door opens, revealing six and a bit feet of shining beskar. “What is it?” you say, your voice strained, your eyes wide and wild. “Is it the child --?”

“Um,” says Mando. “No. I wanted -- uh. Um. The child is fine.”

“Okay,” you say. Your heart thunders against your ribs, and your breath comes in sharp, short sips, fear constricting your windpipe. “What -- what is it?” 

“I just wanted -- uh -- I wanted to ask you a question about Yule.”

“S-sure,” you say. Your terror is draining away, only to be replaced by humiliation so  _ profound _ that your skin is burning up, so warm it could peel away from your bones. You’re certain that the phrase  _ I was just having a wank thinking of you _ has appeared on your forehead, glowing scarlet.

“Put some clothes on first,” he says, his helmet tipping down a fragment -- 

You follow his gaze, and --

The towel. The kriffing towel. Either it has slipped down or -- more likely -- in your haste to bundle up you did not get it  _ quite _ right, and your right breast is just. There. On display.

Your face flushes harder, burnished pink across your cheekbones. “It’s just a  _ nipple _ !” you snap at him. “Haven’t you ever seen one before?”

\--

Later, you join Mando in the cockpit. Outside, the snow is a luminous blanket; the moon a great, ghostly galleon, fragmented by skeletal trees. He sits in the pilot’s chair, legs akimbo, and you very deliberately do not look at his crotch -- even though his silver armour frames it just perfectly, his trousers pulling tight, a dark triangle of --

No. Absolutely not. He probably has a tentacle there. Or -- or a smaller replica of his helmet, perched over his manhood. Shielding him in every possible way. 

“So,” he says. “Yule. Is it important for children?”

“Yes,” you say at once. Your eyes are fixed on his helm, but your mind is already wandering back, to Yules long past; the smell of pinewood, the crackle of paper under your hands, the nursery droids beeping their way through carols in binary. Memory is a funny thing. It polishes off the hard, ugly edges and leaves you with the golden shadows. “ _ Absolutely _ . You meet up, you exchange presents. You eat  _ way _ too much food. And when you’re a kid, it’s magical -- my parents would send us to bed early, then decorate the house. We’d wake up to greenery everywhere, like a glittering forest had grown overnight. They would hide our presents. It would take all morning to find them. Even when there wasn’t much left…”

Your voice trails off. 

“The kid needs a chance to be a kid,” says Mando, at length. “He’s just...jetting around the galaxy. Following me. I’m worried that he’s -- missing out.”

Oh, your heart is going to  _ burst _ . Mando is intimidating, because of course he is. You’ve seen him fight. You’ve seen him  _ kill.  _ He once broke a man’s jaw because the man said something a little vulgar about you, and you’d be lying if you said that the image -- Mando, towering in staunch anger; the man, coughing up blood and teeth -- hadn’t done something terrible and primal to your libido. 

But. You will not be afraid of him. You refuse to listen to your dumb animal brain’s interjections ( _ predator; hunter; dangerous.)  _ You know that he will not kill you; that he will not harm you; that should you wish to leave his employ he will drop you off somewhere where you can make your way home, with enough credit in your account to afford passage. You know this because he has told you this, and you trust him. 

Could he kill you? Yes. Does that thought turn you on? Absolutely not.

(Read: yes. He’s strong enough to smack you to the ground and pull you about by your hair but he wouldn’t do it unless you asked nicely -- and he would probably enjoy ordering you onto your knees but --)

( _ Anyway _ .)

(You’re going to write  _ he probably doesn’t even have a dick _ on your arm and check it every single time you think about Frogmuncher Snr, because this is getting ridiculous.)

Anyway. There is no child cute enough, no pay good enough, no voice  _ hot _ enough to make you willingly spend a single  _ second  _ with a man you fear. You’ve done that before. It’s not, uh,  _ done it _ for you.

“I mean,” you say, “he’s got all the frogs he can eat, a nice place to sleep; a doting father. He’s loved. What else does he need?”

Mando’s silent again; silent for so long that you wonder if this is his way of dismissing you. 

Then he says, “Some magic, maybe.”

\--

“That one,” you say, imperiously, indicating a suitable tree: it’s tall, but not so tall it won’t fit in the ship; a neat triangle of evergreen needles. Mando chops it down with three blows of his axe, and the frozen air floods with the scent of sharp, sweet sap. 

Then he hefts it up; the trunk is the width of your thigh, and he lifts the tree like it is  _ nothing _ . The smoky plumes of his breath, forced out through his viser, do not change in regularity. He’s not even  _ struggling _ . 

“Not bad,” you say. You are, suddenly and profoundly, aware of the friction of your linen nightdress against your breasts; of the seam of your underwear up against your cunt. You bundle yourself deeper into your fur coat, and paste a bright smile on. “That’s a good start. But we should get that one as well.”

You indicate another tree: it’s half as big again, with a broader trunk, crackled and patterned with age. 

By the time you have finished, you are carrying a single bough back to the ship, and Mando has fashioned a sled to haul back the half a dozen trees you indicated to him. His breathing stuttered a  _ little  _ by the fifth one, but now it is back to even, soft exhalations. You are a monster. You are not even the slightest bit guilty. 

The trees do not fit in the ship. You feign surprise, and Mando displays no emotion whatsoever (a little disappointing: you  _ did _ want him to be annoyed at you….not properly, but maybe enough for him to call you a  _ bad girl _ and demand some kind of recompense for his effort --)

(You curl your fingers into your palm, your fingernails sinking in, and you think of that time that the baby got into some seeds that disagreed with him; the image of explosive green diarrhea is enough to quell even your surging libido.)

“You’ll just have to chop them up,” you say, sunnily, sitting in your accustomed position in the hallway: pressed up against the wall, so your shoulderblades can remember the purr of the engine. Also, this way you get to peer up at Mando. When he starts manhandling the branches inside, his legs move in such a way that the exposed fabric on his thighs tightens, revealing what is  _ probably  _ cords of muscle, clenching and unclenching with effort. 

“Done,” he declares, and you snap out of your reverie -- that is: imagining how the muscles in his shoulders probably curl up like well-fed snakes when he lifts something -- and stand, and --

“Oh,” you say. “ _ Oh _ .”

He’s transformed the ship. Boughs of pine are bent in the hallway, the tips flaring out over the ceiling, forming a tunnel that extends into the cockpit. He’s stacked more branches against the wall, laid them over the controls, forming a dark green grotto. The air smells sharply of sap, and you close your eyes, and inhale. 

“Is this right?” he says. His voice is -- soft. Softer than you remember ever hearing it, a rush of static over the modulator, and you would follow him into hell. You’d follow him into hell, with your feet bare and bleeding, just to hear that tone again. Because he’s a bounty hunter, and a soldier, gilded with the glory of violence, unafraid and  _ powerful  _ \-- but he goes soft, and tender, for that little green child. 

“Yes,” you say. You keep your eyes closed, trying to extend the moment, existing in a private bubble of your own making. “Yes, it’s perfect.”

“Good. See you in the morning.”

His cloak knocks against your shins as he leaves, and you open your eyes to watch him squeeze through the tunnel, retiring to bed. Alone. Because of course. You can dream all you wish, but those hot little imaginings will not claw their way to reality, no matter how much you stand in a grotto, eyes closed. 

What did you hope he was going to do? Kiss you? Take off his helm, break his sacred creed, just for the delight of your mouth?

You tap yourself smartly on the cheek. It’s not a slap, just a nudge to drag you back to reality. 

(Would he slap you for being such an insolent little --)

( _ No no absolutely not --) _

There’s work to be done still. Another one of grandmother’s sayings:  _ a woman’s work is never done, and most of it is convincing a man that his work needs to start _ . 

\--

On reflection, you’re a kriffing  _ idiot _ . 

Big shiny beskar man asking questions about Jedi. That’s going to draw attention. And some of that attention will follow him back to the ship. 

And there you are, a slip of a thing, wandering about the forest, alone.

\--

The leader of the gang is a human man, not much older than you: he’s got blonde hair done up in a ratty braid, and teeth filed to neat little points. It’s a ridiculous aesthetic choice. It’s  _ got _ to hurt to have done, and it just gives him a gap-toothed grin that would be laughable if seen at a distance. 

But he isn’t at a distance. He’s got a blaster at your temple, and you can smell the spirits on your breath. 

So no. Not laughable at all. 

He has about forty friends, lounging about in the fireglow, or else wandering between the trees. They wear a random mishmash of armour: some is old Stormtrooper garb, but you see one or two New Republic uniforms, dirty olive green and rusting brocade. The collapse of the Empire opened the way for such ramshackle gangs: people who thrive in chaos, and make their best living off the fear and flesh of others. 

(Not that the Empire was  _ better _ . Those sort of people existed when the Emperor sat on his throne; they just had cleaner uniforms.)

Your wrists are bound in front of you; your ankles tied so tightly that blood pulses in your feet. If this was a story -- if you were a heroine -- you would banter with them. Say something like  _ he’s going to kill you all _ and get hit in the mouth for your trouble, and spit your red blood out on the snow and grin defiance. You’d be unafraid and sarky and, somehow, still beautiful, even when trussed up like a Yuletide hog. Or (if it was another kind of story) you’d seduce the leader, batting your eyelashes, and you’d get him naked, hard, and defenseless, before slitting his throat. 

But it  _ isn’t _ that type of story, and you’re not a heroine, and despite everything you really  _ really _ do not want Mando to come and rescue you. You can hear them whispering to each other, about  _ the child  _ and  _ the Remnant  _ and  _ Moff _ and about just how many credits are heaped on the little green one’s shoulders, and it is enough to buy a star system. 

Lure him out, take the child. Take the beskar. 

And Mando is the greatest warrior you have ever met, but what is one warrior against forty?

The leader presses his blaster against your cheek; you inhale sharply, your eyes glossy with tears. And you hate yourself for it. You hate yourself for being afraid, for being unarmed, and helpless. For being a stupid little girl.

“How long will it take for your friend to notice you’re missing?” he coos. 

“He -- he won’t,” you say. Your voice is wrenched and shaking and your heart sits at the back of your tongue. “He won’t. He -- he’ll take the child, and he’ll leave. Why would he come back for me? I’m a -- a --  _ babysitter.  _ A  _ housekeeper _ . I’m not his friend. I’m a -- a fucking --  _ employee _ .”

A disturbance in the trees; crunching snow, and the snapping of twigs. A twi’lek woman with manic eyes arrives, grinning. “He’s on the move,” she says. “Left the ship -- took the kid with him.”

No. No, no,  _ no _ . 

“Here’s what you’re going to do,” says the man, reaching out for your chin; you flinch away, so he grabs your hair instead, winding it around his hand. “You’re going to scream for help.”

You shake your head, your scalp burning, your heart throbbing in your mouth. “No,” you manage. “No -- I won’t, I won’t --”

“Not a good actress? That’s fine. I’ll  _ help _ .”

\--

You do scream. You hate yourself for it, but you  _ do _ , because that is your  _ bone _ poking through your skin, and with a terrible, glassy clarity you note: that’s my tibia right there. I can see it. Golly. That shouldn’t be exposed. 

You scream when they break it, and you scream when they throw you to the ground in a clearing: bait for the trap. You don’t scream afterwards though, even though your vision is white and starry with pain. You cram your hand into your mouth to stifle your cries, and rock back and forth on the snow, curled into a foetal position. 

Tears freeze your lashes together. The stars are pitiless eyes, glaring down, and the moon’s silver light turns everything to bone-white and pitch-dark: a monochrome study in silence. 

(Apart from the space around you though. That is red. Heart-red. Yule-red. You didn’t know you had that much blood in you. You didn’t know you could lose that much blood and stay awake.)

It could be the blood loss, or the terror, but you feel yourself divorcing from reality, slipping into a dream-state that is almost  _ comical _ . Earlier this evening, you were staring at Mando’s crotch, and wondering if he did have a cock. You were decorating for  _ Yule _ . 

But here you are. 

Time stretches, and warps, and it could be an hour or it could be a lifetime, but you hear -- something. A quick, sharp  _ crack.  _ Maybe ice snapping, falling off a tree? 

But then there’s another. And another. And then a yowl, cut short. You haul yourself up onto your elbows and cast about wildly, trying to remember where the gang had hidden themselves, but you  _ can’t _ , you just can’t, your thoughts are slippery little fish, squeezing between your fingers. 

A flare of light, like localised lightning, and a  _ poof _ \-- and this time you recognise the sound. It’s someone  _ disintegrating _ . Hope is a living thing, squirming up your throat, bright and burning.

“Mando?” you whisper, as there’s another flare of light, a series of  _ poof, poof, poof _ \--

A man breaks cover from the trees; his face is a mask of scarlet, but you recognise the pointed teeth. He’s bolting like a hare, mindless with terror, and -- 

_ Poof _ . 

He explodes into dust and light, and behind him is your rescuer. Your body acts without consulting your brain, cowering down. “I -- I --”

“What did they  _ do _ to you,” says Mando, in a voice of such cold fury that you quail away; forgetting momentarily that he is here to help you. The snow pushes against your chest, soaking through your clothes, and the air reeks of charred flesh and blasterfire. 

(And blood. Your blood. Can’t forget that.)

“I -- I didn’t scream,” you say. It is imperative he knows that. “I didn’t scream, they wanted me to draw you in, why did you  _ come _ , they wanted the  _ baby _ .”

The words don’t make much sense to you and, judging by the way he tilts his helm, they don’t make much sense to Mando either. Frustration bubbles up. He has to  _ understand _ . 

“There -- there are so -- so  _ many _ ,” you say. “And -- and they -- they were using me as  _ bait _ , and they wanted me to c-c- _ call _ for you.”

“And you didn’t,” he says. His voice is very soft. Danger soft. You think of a loth cat’s large paws, silent until it is too late. “You didn’t call for me.”

“I-it was a t-t-trap,” you say. “They w-wanted the --child. I wanted to  _ look after you -- _ ”

“You stupid, stupid thing,” he says. There’s no malice in his voice: only a sort of weary tenderness that, in any other context, would have your stomach doing backflips. As it is, all you can do is stare at him, your face drained white as the snow around you. “Did you  _ really _ think I couldn’t handle a gaggle of badly prepared kids?”

“There are  _ forty _ ,” you say. The black sky is fading, the stars streaking into a milky blur. You’re passing out in a slow, syrupy slide;your vision vignetting until all you can see is the chrome glow of his helmet, like the moon has detached itself to hang in front of your face. 

“ _ Were _ ,” he says, and you hear the satisfied smirk in his voice, and then you fall into the dark.

\--

Constellations drift past the cockpit window. Nebula are ribbons of fog, curling about nameless, countless galaxies. Suns. Moons. There’s a word:  _ sonder _ . It means “ _ The profound feeling of realizing that everyone, including strangers passed in the street, has a life as complex as one's own, which they are constantly living despite one's personal lack of awareness of it.” _

Right now you are positively  _ crushed  _ by that feeling. Sonder. Or is it  _ sondering _ ? You experience grief; you are grieving. You experience sonder; you are sondering. It sounds too much like  _ sunder _ . But maybe that works as well. Sundered: “ _ broken apart _ .”

You’re in that odd, scratchy headspace that lingers between marrow-deep exhaustion and adrenaline: too tired to sleep, too wired to move. Cut loose from your moorings; adrift. Sundered. Sondered. Half drunk with blood-loss. Your right arm is in a top-quality bactasling: Mando skimps on soap, but not on med supplies, and so you’ll be healed up fast. It doesn’t even hurt anymore. 

So here you are, cross-legged by the pilot seat, your ear pressed against Mando’s knee. His gauntleted hand is heavy on your head, ruffling back and forth; absentmindedly petting you. You’re a dreamy  _ wreck _ . Despite everything, heat pools in your lower belly: a simmering fire that pulses down your thighs, in your nipples, in your cunt. 

You don’t say anything though. You daren’t break the spell. You and Mando, in what remains of your Yule grotto, in a frangible moment perched between one reality and the next, in the endless, yawning night of space.

He taps a couple of buttons, and the ship slows to a drift. 

“We’ll jump tomorrow,” he says. “No point in wasting the fuel now.”

“Sure,” you say.

His palm leaves your scalp, and a bolt of desperate want shoots through you, coupled with absolute despair at the loss of contact. You look up at him, unsure of how to shape your desire into words:  _ keep touching me _ , you want to say -- but you daren’t beg, daren’t  _ ask _ . But you must. But you  _ daren’t _ .

If this was a romance story --

Well. It isn’t. You swallow down the thorns of your dignity and manage, “Is the kid adopted--?”

(Oh, how  _ smooth _ . How profound. Well done.)

And he says, “You look pretty down there.”

And then you both sit there in stark, stunned silence. 

Then he laughs -- actually  _ laughs _ \-- two sharp exhalations through the modulator. Your breath rises in your throat, and you muster up all the courage you have and rock onto your knees, placing one hand on his thigh.

He twizzles the chair around, opening his legs more -- and is that an invitation? Are you shameless enough to assume that it is? Your mouth is flooded with saliva, and you wriggle yourself forwards, kneeling between his thighs. But you don’t go any further.

“Is the little one adopted?” you press, absolutely serious. “I need to know.”

Another huffing laugh. You keep your gaze trained on the T of his visor, ignoring the radiant heat from his flesh, the  _ smell  _ of him. Clean linen, and that lemony soap, and gunsmoke: like the wilds of every world you’re too frightened to set foot on have been condensed into one man. 

(Might not be a man --)

“I’m one hundred per cent human,” he drawls. “The little one is adopted.”

“Good,” you say. “ _ Good _ .”

And then, before you can come to your senses, you press a feather-soft kiss to his armoured calf. The beskar chills your mouth, and Mando’s breath catches above you. Winter cold armour, and warm as summer beneath. 

“You -- your arm,” he says. “You’re hurt.”

The look you give him is withering. “My  _ arm _ is hurt. Not my  _ mouth _ .”

You show your teeth, roll your tongue over them: a move that  _ was _ meant to be sexy, but he  _ laughs  _ at you again, and you’d be furious if it was not such a rare sound; if he didn’t accompany it by returning his hand to the back of your head.

(Force  _ above _ , the back of your head.)

(He could just  _ push your head down) _

(You  _ really _ want him to push your head down.)

But he doesn’t: he holds you like your skull is some fragile bird egg, woefully gentle. 

“Are you sure?” he says, his voice  _ soft _ and  _ tender _ and  _ warm _ , and there is someone else’s blood rusting on his cape, and he either does not notice or does not care; he’s a nightmare made flesh, an army all on his own. And he’s asking if you are  _ sure _ , when you are on your  _ knees _ , all but  _ begging _ to get your mouth on him. 

“Yes,” you say. “Of course I am.”

His sigh of relief tells you, quite clearly, that he is just as desperate and aching as you are, and  _ that _ makes you want to  _ weep _ with joy. His hands tremble at his belt buckle, and  _ that _ is a power trip, the sight of those strong hands  _ quivering _ because he is so eager to get his cock out.You reach out with your good hand to help him, only for him to grasp your wrist.

“No. Don’t worry. I’ll do it. Put -- put your hands behind your back.” A pause. “Please?”

Your breath is high and tight in your throat; your breasts heaving. You think you understand. You hope to the Force that you understand. “Don’t say please. You don’t need to say please to me.”

Mando pauses, both hands at his groin. “Good. Hands behind your back. Keep them there.”

You obey at once, all but wriggling with delight. “Yes. Absolutely.”

“If I’m too, uh, rough,” he says, “Hit my thigh. I’ll stop.”

“Sure,” you say. Your knickers are  _ clinging _ to your cunt; you’ve never been so turned on in your entire life.  _ Too rough.  _ He’s adorable. “But you should slap me.”

He makes a thin, pained sound; a choked-off moan. “Only if you do a bad job,” he says, his voice somehow finding a hitherto unexplored register, rumbling deep and bass in his helm, and reverberating in your bones. 

“Well, I’ll do a terrible job then,” you retort, resting your cheek on his leg. The muscle there is exactly how you’d imagine it feel: pulled taut and strong, hard as iron. 

“You -- you are a kriffing  _ monster _ .”

“I know. I’m the w-worst,” you say -- your voice skips and tangles as he finally,  _ finally  _ gets his cock out, and you have never been so thrilled to be wrong in your entire life. It is not green. Nor is it wearing a teeny Mando helmet. It’s heavy, thick, and  _ there _ , sitting against dark curls and coppery, sunkissed skin. You lean forwards, only to be caught short by his hand on your hair. 

“Wait. For o-once in your life, do as I say.”

“I always do what you say,” you retort. “ _ Always _ .”

“Then shut  _ up _ .”

It’s the worst kind of cliche, but you cannot help yourself: you look up at him through your lashes, and smile beatifically, and say, “ _ Make me _ .”

\--

You keep your good hand behind your back, your broken arm pressed hard against your breasts, and you let him guide your head forwards, your long hair a lever. He wraps it around his fingers, and pushes your head down --  _ pushes it down _ , you could die right now, in this second, and be content -- while catching his cock, holding it up, like an offering. Your lips brush the head, and he smears it back and forth over your mouth, leaving bleary little trails of precum on you; but his hand is an iron grip on your scalp, preventing you from leaning forwards, and taking him into your mouth like you want. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” he gasps. “You’re -- fuck, you’re beautiful --”

You can’t help yourself. “I know,” you say, pushing back against his grasp; he relaxes it minutely, enough for you to angle your face up towards him, his cock still pressed against the softness of your cheek. 

“What --?”

“I  _ know _ I’m beautiful. I don’t need  _ you _ to tell me that,” you pant at him, your lips spit-wet; a giddy grin hanging off your face. “Do better with the sweet talk.”

“Shut up. Oh just  _ shut up _ ,” he says, twisting your head back around, and this time when he pushes his cock against your mouth he pushes  _ in _ , past the velvety slide of your lips, mindful of your teeth, and onto your waiting tongue. He’s  _ big _ , uncomfortably so, and he does not stop pressing in, making you open your mouth to accommodate him, breaking you open to make room.

Your good hand curls into a fist, and you close your eyes. He’s pressed up against your soft palette, and you’ve widened and flattened your tongue, working it upwards as much as you can, feeling every ridge and vein on his cock, learning the landscape of him. 

“Let me see your eyes,” he says. “Open them, let me  _ see _ .”

That is -- a challenge. You force your eyes open, tears already welling, starting to stream down your face in quivering, brilliant streaks. It’s so  _ much, _ the slow insistent press of his cock working down your throat, puffing hard little breaths through your nose, your cunt swollen and hot.. You grind down, and get a  _ tiny _ bit of relief, humping your own kriff-damn thigh.

“That’s it. Open up. Let me  _ in _ ,” he says: the pressure on the back of your head is gentle, but insistent, and you swallow thickly around him. He moans, and the sound thrums all the way to your toes. Encouraged, you swallow again; then close your eyes, and push his cock the rest of the way into your throat, in one hard, slick motion. 

The strangled, punched sound he makes is part shock, part delight, and altogether the best fucking thing you’ve heard in your life. You can’t smile; his cock is distending your mouth too much; but you giggle, little gasps of air that ripple the dark thatch of hair your nose is currently pressed into. You choke, your throat working uselessly trying to expel the intrusion --

“Fucking  _ Force _ . Fuck,” says Mando, and you’re almost certain this is the most he’s ever spoke to you. “Your  _ mouth _ . Feels so good.  _ So good _ . W-wanna fuck your face. C-come down your tight throat, you pretty,  _ pretty _ thing --” His grip on your hair tightens, holding you in place, and when you choke again, he pushes you further down, grinding his cock deeper into the wet channel of your throat. Your eyes are streaming with tears, and your face is a red, glossy mess, your lips swollen and pink around him, almost splitting open with the width they’re having to accommodate.

Then he starts to pull you off him -- slowly, so you feel him drag and scrape inside you -- before slamming you back down, with an obscene, wet sound; saliva puddles in your mouth, drips over your chin. 

_ “Do b-better _ you said,” he groans, “Do better. You’re going to be the death of me.”

He pulls out of your mouth, and you whine at the loss of contact; but he doesn’t go far, using his thighs to push you back further so he can stand over you and push back into your mouth and --

_ Stars _ . Force.  _ Fuck _ . Standing up like that, he’s able to take more control: not just pushing your head into his lap, but fucking into your face properly, hard and swift and punishing. You gasp in air in desperate little sips,all your attention zeroed in on where his cock is slamming into your throat with filthy slurping sounds. You have no choice but to close your eyes and take it, your head going starry dark, animal-dumb in the primal mess of it all; your chin tipped up, lips straining and flushed scarlet; your hips making stilted, desperate little motions against your calves, trying to find a tiny bit of relief for the aching, molten feeling at your core --

Mando groans your name before wedging his cock in, as deep as it will go, and cumming in a hot, trembling burst, down the back of your throat. You feel his cum scald your gullet, and then he’s pulling out, and you are gasping in air, mopping up the drool with the back of your hand. 

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding very sorry at all. “Sh-should have warned you.”

You stare up at him, aware of what a kriffing mess he’s made of you. “Wow,” you manage. “ _ Wow _ .”

“Do  _ better _ ,” he says, again, incredulous. “I’ve wanted to do that for  _ so so long _ . You’re so -- so --  _ fearless _ . And  _ warm _ .”

“N-not fearless,” you say. Your mouth feels empty, slack and gaping. Your lips sting. “J-just n-not scared -- of --  _ you _ \-- ”

“Was it all deliberate?” he says, recovering his breath far faster than you think is fair. “All the -- antagonism? You just wanted me to -- to snap? To put you over the console and fuck you until you behaved?”

“No,” you say. Your lashes spangle with tears, and -- as you stand -- another little freshet of moisture soaks into your pants. “I just -- know -- when I’m  _ right _ .”

“Well,” he says, his helm tilting down towards your crotch, where your nightgown is damn near translucent. “I think it’s only fair that you have a turn --”

He goes to reach for you. And, of course, that is when the console beeps, signalling that little one is awake, and moving about in his crib. 

You sigh. “Next time, maybe,” you say. “Got to see to the little green one. It’s what you pay me for.”

You leave him there, his cock still shiny with your spit, and pad out of the cockpit, mopping your mouth clean with the sleeve of your nightgown. 

Next time, you think. There’ll be a  _ next time _ . 

\--

“Is this what you were going out for?” says Mando, as you arrange the crown on your head. You’ve braided it out of the more flexible branches, and it isn’t nearly as pretty as the ones back home, but it’s serviceable.

“Yup. You need vines for it, really. Flexible twigs,” you say, hoiking the baby more securely onto your hip, “No, not for eating darling. If you eat your crown you won’t have space for your frogs.”

The baby leaves the wreath alone and gurgles imperatively. You understand that gurgle to mean  _ frog now please _ . To be fair, most of what he says can be interpreted as  _ frog now please _ . 

With an air of affected nonchalance, you say, “I made one for you.”

“You -- made me one?”

“Yeah,” you say, afraid to face him, keeping your gaze on the baby’s wrinkly forehead. “I mean -- you don’t need to wear it. If you don’t want. It’s there.”

You gesture without looking, indicating a third crown; this one has little candles standing upright in it, nestled in holders made of acorn shells and a lot of hot glue. It looks  _ really _ bad, and you’re too ashamed to acknowledge it properly. 

“Oh,” says Mando. “Why does it --?”

“The candles are, uh, for the head of the household,” you say, letting the baby fiddle with the straps on your sling. “And, uh, the leaves represents that even in winter, there’s greenery. And that spring is coming. Not that it comes in space. But you know.”

You  _ daren’t _ look. Less than half an hour ago, he was cumming down your throat; but somehow this has made you  _ more _ shy. Before, you could at least  _ pretend _ that you did not care much for his opinion, that your primary concern was the child; that he was just your employer.

That spell is gone. Things have shifted irrevocably, and you’re going to have to find a way to live in that. For now though, you focus on the babe, listening to the rustling of his cloak on the boughs.

“There,” he says. 

You turn around, and the baby coos in delight. You’re astonished by the bolt of want that lances straight down your stomach, and your neglected cunt clenches around empty air. 

It  _ should _ look ridiculous on him. It should. And yet some strange magic has come over him, and the crown makes him look like a god of the woods, a hunter who follows his prey until it drops, a predator with sharp teeth and strong hands and a heart of beskar. You’re not afraid of him, you’re really not, but as he inclines his helm so you can light his candles your heart gives a painful, delightful little squeeze, and you feel like a hare, pinioned under the gaze of a fox. 

You’d let him chase up until your lungs gave out. Oh how you  _ want _ . 

_ Next time _ , you tell yourself, and as the engines daudle, and the stars glow, the pair of you watch the babe scarf down a frog twice as large as he.  _ Next time.  _


End file.
